Some Time Alone
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Left behind with a sprained ankle while Dean heads out on a routine hunt, Sam is forced to confront some of his more base urges. WARNING: Contains self-stuffing, suggestions of Wincest, and inevitable OOCness.


**This would be my way of apologizing to those of you who actually pay attention to me.**

**(And a certain friend of mine insisted.)**

**I haven't updated ****_Brotherly Love_**** in awhile; I'm sorry for that.**

**So, until I overcome the writer's block that's been plaguing me when it comes to that story, enjoy this short stuffing one-shot.**

**A few more things you need to know: This is written through Sam Winchester's perspective, it contains self-stuffing, and suggestions of Wincest. Not to mention OOCness.**

**You have been warned.**

* * *

"Okay. That should do it." Dean pressed the adhesive end of the bandage into place, tossing the packaging into the trash can next to the bed with an unreadable expression on his face. Cracking a disposable cold pack to activate it, he handed it to me and swung his duffel bag onto his shoulder. "I'll be back in the morning."

I sighed, leaning forward to position the cold pack on my heavily-bandaged ankle, which was propped up on several thin motel pillows. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dean told me, crossing the small room. "You tripped over a tree root. It's perfectly understandable." He paused, handle on the doorknob. "Granted, walking on your busted ankle for a week and then not telling me it hurt until it was so swollen we had to cut your sock off wasn't."

I winced. "It...didn't seem that bad."

"Yeah, whatever." He yanked open the door. "Just stay off of it, keep it elevated, and don't wait up for me."

The door slammed behind him. I rested my head against the wall at my back, closing my eyes and hating the fact that I was so useless. Dean was just going on a routine ghost hunt, and it wouldn't take him any more than a few hours. He didn't need me. But I couldn't stop myself from wishing I was with him, instead of laid up here.

My ankle throbbed. It really hadn't seemed that bad when I'd first sprained it. In fact, it hurt a lot more now than it had then. But then again, now, I wasn't chasing down a werewolf with a higher-than-healthy level of adrenalin in my body.

I could try to be a little less useless, at least. Maybe I could do research or something. Automatically, I looked around for my laptop, before remembering that it was in my backpack. And that my backpack was in the car. And that the car was with Dean.

I swore under my breath.

After maybe ten minutes of tapping my fingers against each other, staring at the ceiling, and trying to block out the pain of my ankle, I realized that I was hungry. Relieved that I had something else to focus on, I shook the ice pack off of my ankle. I gingerly lowered both feet to the ground, not putting any weight on my injured one. Dean'd just told me to stay off of it. He hadn't said anything about hopping.

Holding onto walls and furniture in order to keep my balance, I guided myself over to the kitchenette in the corner, and pulled open the door of the small refrigerator. It was really more of something to do than an actual attempt to find something to eat. I mean, it was a fridge in a seedy motel room-I was expecting a few bottles of beer or harder alcohol, courtesy of Dean, or maybe some leftovers from whoever had had the room before us (which would have been disgusting). But that wasn't what I found at all.

It was shockingly well-stocked. There was soda on the bottom shelf, both cans and bottles. Several cakes, in a variety of flavors, had been placed on the second shelf. And when I opened the freezer, I found it full of ice cream.

Slowly, I closed both doors, then reopened them. The food was still there. I had no idea how or why, but it was. Oddly enough, I'd been craving something sweet.

Dean wouldn't be back for hours, and I really was hungry. It seemed I didn't have a choice.

Carefully lifting out one of the cakes, I glanced around the kitchenette, hoping for plates, and found a package of paper ones wedged behind the microwave, as well as plastic forks and spoons. I cut myself a good-sized slice and pulled a can of Coke out of the fridge, sitting down at the table and propping my ankle up on the chair across from me. My stomach growled as I shoved the first forkful of cake into my mouth.

It was absolutely amazing. Rich and moist, with a chocolate flavor that didn't taste powdery or manufactured at all. My mouth full, I couldn't hold back a small grunt of appreciation. It had most definitely been awhile since I'd eaten anything this good.

The slice was gone before I even knew it. I was almost shocked when my fork scraped against the plate, nothing but crumbs and smears of icing left. I barely remembered eating it, but I could definitely feel it in my stomach. Heavy and rich. Feeling a little self-conscious, even though there was no one there but me, I popped open the can of soda and drank. It was almost abnormally good. I attributed it to the fact that I hadn't had a soft drink in awhile-Dean pretty much lived on beer, tequila, and whiskey, which meant that I had to, too, apparently. But it was kinda nice to drink something that didn't burn on the way down for once.

As soon as I was done, I had to press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle a burp. I was full. I could feel my stomach brushing against my belt and jeans, and my hunger was gone. But, somehow, I wanted more. Carefully, I brought my injured ankle down from the chair, and stood. Turning to the counter, plate in hand, I exhaled forcefully. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, but I couldn't help feeling guilty as I cut another slice of cake, the same size as the first. I glanced around the dingy motel room as I maneuvered it onto the plate. Obviously, no one was judging me.

_You're twenty-three and capable of killing a ghoul with your bare hands,_ I reminded myself as sternly as I could. _You're allowed to have two slices of cake if you want to._

Telling myself that made me feel a little better, so I sat down and started to eat again.

It really was truly fantastic cake. Again, I barely even noticed I was eating it, just reveling in the flavor. But I definitely noticed as soon as I was done-and not just because it was gone. I was uncomfortably full, though there wasn't any pain, not yet. My stomach bulged against my belt, full and heavy. Sighing, I reached down and loosened it a few notches. Immediately, I was more comfortable-and ready to eat more.

But I hesitated before standing up to get another slice of cake. Something about this felt familiar to me.

College. Yep, that's what it was. Apparently, to get an undergraduate degree from Stanford, you had to do a lot of studying. I usually ate while doing so, in order to meet my deadlines. Which was fine. Usually, I'd settle in with enough snacks to get me through the night, expecting to have a lot of leftovers because food was never really something I was into. Not like Dean.

The problem was that I never paid attention to how much I was actually eating until the button popped off of my jeans, or I tried to stand up and couldn't. Thank God I never had roommates-I could just imagine what would have happened if one of the guys I knew had walked in on me, pinned down by the weight of my overstuffed stomach.

You would think I'd stop doing that. Eating until my belly was so full I couldn't move. But...I didn't.

The proof of that was the small roll of pudge I'd had around my waist when Dean came to tell me Dad was missing. I'd hidden it with loose clothing, and it was gone now-the reason that I had to cinch my belts so tightly. I was fortunate Dean had never noticed the extra weight. He would never have let me live it down.

I stood, moving my ankle very carefully. There was no way I would do anything like that ever again. I had more discipline than that. I took care of myself, my body, and I wasn't my brother, eating whatever I had a craving for and bedding every woman I came across regardless of who-or what-she was. I was in control of my urges.

I paused on my way back to my bed. Urge. Was that really how I was going to classify this? Put it up there with basic animal desires for sex and revenge and freedom?

The sort of thing I had learned the hard way not to repress for too long?

I turned back toward the kitchenette, feeling what I'd already eaten slosh in my full belly. Shoving all but my most basic feelings out of my head, I picked up a knife, fork, and the rest of the cake. After a moment's consideration, I balanced all of that in the crook of one arm and opened the freezer door, pulling out a carton of ice cream. I grabbed a spoon for it as I limped back over to my bed.

It was just in case I got hungry again, before Dean got back. I didn't want to have to hobble all the way over to the fridge a second time.

But, out of the freezer, it would melt.

So? Then I could drink it.

Shocked by the shiver of pleasure that that thought brought me, I almost dropped what I was carrying. Luckily, though, I had reached the bed by that point, so I could put everything down on the nightstand. As soon as I was settled in, with my ankle propped up and pillows at my back, I reached eagerly for the cake.

I closed my eyes as I ate, enjoying my third slice even more than I had my first two. Weirdly enough, I also enjoyed the feel of it going straight to my belly, stretching it. Even the blossoming ache in my stomach was welcome. The pain, still vague as of yet, was a sign of how fully I was. How much I'd eaten.

Once done with that piece, I slid down a few inches, trying for a more comfortable position. I had to take shallow breaths; my belt was cutting into me again. I reached down and loosened it two more notches, sighing in relief. My stomach was warm and soft against my hands. Inside my clothes, it felt round and strained, incredibly sensitive. I decided to try something. Tentatively, I rubbed my swollen belly, in a soothing circular motion. Like I'd done a million times between the shoulder blades of people who were breaking down.

Before I could stop myself, I gasped, a shudder passing through my body. It felt good. No, more than that, it felt great. But I had the feeling I could make it better. Taking my hands off of my midsection, I reached for the cake again.

The fourth-and, apparently, fifth-slices passed in a blur of chocolate. It tasted better than anything I'd ever eaten, and I couldn't have stopped myself even if I wanted to. I basically lost myself in it. I wasn't even aware of my growing belly anymore, until after I'd swallowed the last mouthful.

Immediately, a tight, restrictive pain hit me. I looked down at myself, to see my stomach bulging noticeably against my clothes. My shirt had ridden up a bit, to expose a thin strip of skin, but my belly was still soft enough to spill over my belt a little. Breathing shallowly to keep it from digging any deeper into me, I reached for the buckle of my belt, undoing it and letting the leather slip through the metal until I was comfortable. But by the time that I wasn't being painfully squeezed anymore, there weren't any notches left on the belt. Sighing, I pulled it out of the loops of my jeans and tossed it onto the floor, figuring that I wouldn't need it anytime soon.

I pulled my shirt up, hesitantly touching my belly again and closing my eyes as pleasure shot through me. I rubbed my stomach with one hand, tipping my head back and gasping in enjoyment as I picked up a sixth slice of cake with the other. The growing ache in my midsection meant pretty much nothing to me-no, that wasn't exactly true. It excited me. It definitely excited me.

My heart thudded in my ribcage as I started to eat again, pumping blood to my growing stomach and a few places just south of there. But I kept my hand on my belly, clumsily rubbing and doing my best to figure out how to enjoy this to the fullest. The waistband of my jeans was getting tight. Denim rubbed against the hyper-sensitive skin there. I bit my lip before shoving the last bite of cake into my mouth, knowing that it would increase my pain. Which it did. The ache got worse, but it was dwarfed by the pleasure of being so full and exploring the sensitive zone of my stomach with one hand. I glanced at the cake. There were two slices left, and my mouth watered.

Licking my lips, belly swollen and stuffed, I reached for one of the slices. I didn't really think I needed to bother with a plate or utensils anymore. Taking the first bite of this seventh piece and closing my eyes in rapture, I pushed myself back up into a more upright sitting position. The food stretching my stomach to limits that it hadn't encountered in quite awhile shifted downwards, and my gut pressed harder against my jeans, filling out all the loose fabric that had been there before. I grunted a little, more out of surprise at the sensation than pain, and rubbed the increasing curve of my belly appreciatively. I was painfully full now, and that made touching the rounded area below my ribcage all the more enjoyable.

As soon as I was done with my current piece of cake, I reached for the last one without a second thought for how much tighter that would make my pants. They were already uncomfortable. The waistband pressed against the bulge of my stomach, though it wasn't cutting into me, not yet. Denim wasn't built to stretch. The space I had was all I was going to get, and I was running out of it pretty fast.

I stuffed the tip of the very last slice of cake into my mouth, unable to hold back a groan of pleasure as I did so. I fed myself with one hand while I kept the other on my stomach, exploring it as it grew and rubbing to soothe the pain that I was feeling. In the back of my mind, I knew that I should probably be disgusted with myself. I was pigging out with no regard for how unhealthy this was, or the inevitable effect it was going to have on my body. It was going to end with me stupefied by pleasure and calorie overload, ridiculously overfed and, more likely than not, pinned down by my own swollen belly. In other words, totally helpless.

Funny how I didn't care. I popped the last bite of cake into my mouth, then licked icing from my fingers with a delicacy I usually reserved for intimate moments in the bedroom.

As soon as I did, discomfort and pain forced a moan out of me. My jeans pressed heavily on the pastry-filled globe of my belly, making an entirely different kind of ache, while the waistband cut into my flesh. I was spilling over it just like I had with my belt, and the sight made me simultaneously embarrassed and satisfied.

I leaned back with a groan, placing both my hands on my stomach and lacing my fingers together over the top of it. The warmth and the weight of it made my eyes flutter closed in simple pleasure. It would have been hard for me to believe that there was an entire cake inside of me, if the size of my belly and the pain coming from it wasn't constantly there to prove it. I moved my hands down to either side of my gut, and, acting on a vague urge, squeezed. Just a little. But the mixed bolt of pleasure and pain that it produced made me gasp and arch my back. Panting, I looked down at my stomach, rubbing it gently.

_Sam Winchester, you are a glutton._

I probably shouldn't have enjoyed that thought, but what the hell. It wasn't like I had any dignity left. Or, apparently, self-control. I patted my midsection in contemplation. As long as I was a slave to my base desires...I glanced at the carton of ice cream, still on the nightstand.

Well, why the hell not?

I reached for it eagerly, barely able to contain my excitement at the thought of stuffing myself even more. I tried to rest the carton on my stomach as I peeled the top off, but I wasn't quite big enough for that yet. Weird how much that disappointed me. I dug my spoon into the ice cream-it looked like vanilla, a nice contrast to all the chocolate I'd just eaten-and noted that it was soft, but not liquid. Easy to eat.

With the first few mouthfuls, I forgot all about the ache in my belly and the fact that I shouldn't be liking this. I wouldn't have believed that anything could be better than the cake had been, but this definitely was. Sweet, creamy, and cold. The only thing that bothered me about it was that I had to hold the carton with one hand and shovel ice cream into my mouth with the other. Nothing was free to touch and massage my stomach. I wished I had someone else to do that while I ate. It'd be incredibly intimate-but I couldn't imagine any of the (admittedly few) girls I'd been with over the years being okay with it.

For some reason, Dean popped into my head. Just the thought of him touching me like I wanted to be touched right now made my face heat up. But I couldn't totally reject the idea, as wrong as it was. He was the person I'd known longer and better than anyone. He'd done things for me that I'd never be able to ask of anyone else-though, admittedly, none of those things had ever been quite the level of awkward that this would be.

He also had very large hands. And he was capable of doing some pretty amazing things with them-I'd walked in on him and whatever nameless woman he'd chosen for the night often enough to know that.

Just thinking about him touching me that gently, and with the same excited, fervent expression on his face, was enough to send a shudder of something carnal through me. I did my best to shove it out of my mind. That was one desire I'd never be catering to.

It wasn't until about halfway through the carton that the pain in my belly became a little too intense for me to ignore. A whimper slipped out of me before I could stop it. Setting the ice cream aside and pressing the back of my hand to my lips to stifle a burp, I took another look at my stomach. It hurt, and it was easy to see why. My shirt had ridden completely up, exposing most of the impressive curve of it. I stroked the taut, sensitive skin, all the way down to where it protruded quite a ways over the waistband of my jeans, obscuring the button. I could feel the fabric cutting into me, and I winced as I prodded my belly. Sucking in my swollen gut as best I could, I reached under the fold of warm flesh and struggled to undo the button. The fabric around it had been stretched practically to the point of tearing, making it difficult. But, finally, after several severely uncomfortable seconds of fumbling with it, I managed to get it open. Immediately, my stuffed stomach spilled into my hands, forcing the zipper of my jeans open on its own. I sighed with relief, leaning back. I began to rub, exploring the entire expanse with both hands and diminishing the ache that was now nowhere near as bad as it had been. Digging my fingertips into the particularly sensitive spots that I found, I closed my eyes and bit my lip, unable to hold back small sounds of pleasure. My God, if I had known it could feel this good, back when I used to do this in college...

I allowed myself a smile at the thought of how much weight I would've gained if I had. Dean definitely would have noticed something when he came for me.

_Jesus, Sammy, you got fat._

On a whim, I glanced over to where I'd set the carton of ice cream down next to me. I might as well finish what I'd started. I picked up the spoon and eagerly resumed eating. Now that my belly was free to expand without any clothing restraining it, I stuffed myself without paying any attention to how big I was getting. There was nothing to distract me from gorging myself until the carton was empty.

With a sigh of regret, I set it aside, and returned both hands to my now-larger stomach. It pressed against my thighs, not quite resting on my lap but nearly. I slipped down into a slightly more comfortable position, holding the round, bloated globe steady as I did so. Right now, I felt contented. Sated. Overfed and heavy, I wanted nothing more than to go to sleep right now. No, that wasn't true. I wanted to enjoy the belly I'd developed a little more before I did that.

I wasn't actually entirely sure I could move right now, beyond adjusting my position just a little, and I wasn't too interested in testing that theory. I felt fat, spoiled, overfed, and not a single one of those was a bad thing. My ankle didn't even hurt anymore. It was dwarfed by the pain in my overstuffed stomach, which was almost enjoyable. I lazily rubbed the curve of it, breathing shallowly because anything else was just too much effort. I was pretty sure I'd never seen anyone as full as I was now. Even Dean, with his near-obsessive love of certain foods, had never gorged himself to the state that I was in. I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling another burp, and closed my eyes.

That was about the time the door burst open.

"I swear, Sam, I'm gonna kill you. The damn thing picked me up and threw me through a-"

"Dean, wait-" I snapped, frightened, as I struggled to sit up.

"What's wrong? Were you..." He trailed off, having made it to the middle of the room, where he had a pretty good view. His green eyes darted around, taking in the discarded belt on the floor, the empty platter and carton next to me, and, of course, my huge, swollen belly. I felt my face heating up, but I really couldn't think of any way to explain this.

Finally, after several seconds of staring, Dean cocked his head to the side, expression incredulous.

"What the hell?"


End file.
